A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

Henry,” I answered, flashing my brightest smile for good measure.

In truth, he was drooping and wearing the same wrinkled suit of clothes he’d had on the night before. The chitchat concluded, he told me his men were still searching the farm for evidence of the arsonist. So far no luck.

I explained that the pistol and newspaper were safe but unavailable until later in the day. He didn’t appear concerned, saying that he’d send a deputy to pick them up as soon as he could.

“Tell you the truth, I don’t think your squatter is involved in this. Why would he stick around the farm, for one thing? Too dangerous.”

“Perhaps. But shouldn’t you look into it?”

“Of course. We’ll get to your gun, Ellie. Don’t worry.”

“What about Bruce Robertson?” I asked. “May I see him now?”

“He wasn’t too keen on it at first, but then he got to thinking he’d like to get his side of the story out there. And when I told him you were a pretty young thing, he was all for it.”

“Not sure how I feel about that.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll be safe. He’s barely as tall as you. And as skinny as a rail.”

“His lawyer doesn’t object?”

“He fired him yesterday. Supposed to get a new one. But he signed a paper waiving his right to have his lawyer present for this chat. Says he’s innocent and has nothing to hide. Not too bright, but there you go. Shall we?” He feigned a bow to invite me to go first.

Bruce Robertson was a weaselly little man of about forty. At first glance, one would be hard-pressed to believe he was capable of any crime more violent than stealing candy from a baby. But his steel-gray eyes told another story. There was a hard coldness in his persistent stare. More than just a creep picturing me naked in his mind, he gave the impression that nothing mattered to him beyond his own wants. He didn’t smile. Didn’t engage on any human level I could discern. He watched. I was uncomfortable, frightened even. Even with the sheriff at my side and a roomful of armed deputies on the other side of the door. And I wanted a shower. I wondered how Jimmy Burgh could have said this reptile was incapable of murder.

Pryor took a seat off to the side of the table while I faced the prisoner directly, not three feet away. The sheriff reached for the phone on the wall and told whoever answered at the other end that we were ready, please send in Mrs. Blaine. A few moments later, there was a knock at the door, and a deputy pushed his way inside. He held the door for a middle-aged woman in a dark dress. Her hair was short and styled with marcel waving held down by bobby pins. She wheeled in a small portable desk bearing a stenograph, and the deputy fetched a chair for her. Within seconds, she was smoothing the fabric of her dress over her thighs and past her knees. She adjusted her eyeglasses, placed her hands on the keyboard, and nodded to the sheriff.

Pryor began. “As you agreed in writing, Mr. Robertson, Miss Stone is here to interview you for a story for her newspaper. She’s going to ask you some questions. I’m present to make sure everything is on the up and up. That’s why I’ve asked for a stenographer. I don’t want you claiming later on that I tricked you. Are you still in agreement?”

Bruce Robertson nodded. Mrs. Blaine waited.

“You’ve got to actually say the words,” the sheriff informed him. “Are you still in agreement?”

“Sure,” said the prisoner, and the stenographer tapped silently to record his statement.

“I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Robertson,” I said. “Did you kill Johnny Dornan or Vivian McLaglen or Micheline Charbonneau?”

“You’re a pretty little thing,” he said in a soft, hoarse voice that emanated from somewhere in the back of his throat. Mrs. Blaine finished her typing a beat or two after Robertson had shut his trap.

I shook a tremor off my shoulders and forged ahead, ignoring his comment. “Did you kill Johnny Dornan or Vivian McLaglen or Micheline Charbonneau? Or do you know who did?”

His gaze ranged from my face, over my bust, and back again. He cocked his head as if admiring a mystical vision. “Your hair is unusual. Don’t see many girls with such curls. And I don’t mean like grandma’s over there.” He threw his head in the direction of the stenographer.

“Johnny Dornan and Vivian McLaglen,” I prompted.

“You ain’t some kind of mix, are you?”

I said nothing.

“Is your daddy a coon? Maybe your momma?”

“That’s enough of that,” said the sheriff. “Answer her questions. This isn’t some kind of entertainment for you.”

“Tell me about Johnny Dornan,” I repeated.

Using the coarsest language imaginable, he proceeded to explain that he wasn’t necessarily against congress between the races, at least not a white man with a Negro woman. That was understandable from both ends of the equation, he said. But he drew the line at Colored men spoiling white women.

“That ain’t right.”

“Okay,” said Pryor. “Get up. You’re going back to your cell.”

I pushed myself out of my chair and stood to leave. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Robertson,” I announced. “Look for my article in the paper tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute,” he called after me as I reached the door. “Where you off to so fast? We were having a nice conversation.”

“Me? I have a date with my black lover. Good-bye.”

Mrs. Blaine choked, and her fingers fell suspiciously silent. She looked to the sheriff as if to ask “Should I record that?” He shook his head.

“Wait! What?” asked Robertson.

“If you have nothing to tell me about Johnny Dornan, Vivian McLaglen, or Micheline Charbonneau, I’m leaving, and you can go back to your cell, as Sheriff Pryor says.”

“You can’t go like that. I know stuff.”

I turned the doorknob. “I’m not interested in hearing what you know about fornicating with Colored women.”

Mrs. Blaine gasped.

“No, I mean